


touch

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, approximately 23 words per millimeter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Touch me,” I said, and he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	touch

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a deliberately vague manner, hoping people would be able to read the characters as they saw fit. Aside from mentioning straining buttons — which John did have in S3 — and a jumper, I like to think it can be read with either person being the touched and either being the one touching. It need not even be my fandom. Pick your characters. (If you do, I'd love to know if it works for you!)
> 
> The rating is a conservative definition of "mature".
> 
> Thanks to [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen), [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope) and [perverselyvex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexism/pseuds/PerverselyVex) for their feedback and support. You make my insanity feel just a bit more sane!

“Touch me,” I said, my voice a whisper caught somewhere between a demand and a plea.

He did.

It was everything I thought it would be and nothing like anything I had expected — or even imagined — all at once.

He took my hand in his, carefully, gently, and a moment’s doubt traced its way alongside the spark that skittered from his fingertips and across my skin. I should have known better, trusted him. Because all my doubt fled in the next moment, as quickly as it had come. 

He didn’t merely hold my hand. It seemed as if he held my life, for I could not breathe. He slowly turned my hand in his until my palm was facing upward and lightly — so lightly — touched a fingertip to the point on my hand where my lifeline meets my wrist. It wasn’t the right spot for checking, but I’m sure he could feel my pulse pounding. _I_ could hear it, feel it, thrumming in my head.

He looked at my hand for a moment, seemingly content with that small bit of contact. Then he lowered his mouth, lips slightly parted, to hover — warm, moist — above the thin skin of my inner wrist. My lungs burned from the stale air they were holding — until I unwittingly released it on a gasp of pleasure at his next move.

He lowered his head the necessary fraction more and let the tip of his tongue just graze the base of my palm before he began tracing the blood flow through the blue-grey veins visible along my bare arm. I don’t know that I have ever been more grateful that a task earlier in the day had led me to roll up my sleeves. However, it was beginning to annoy me that said task hadn’t required me to shed my shirt entirely.

He stopped his tongue’s journey at the inner crease of my elbow and closed his lips on the sensitive skin there, taking his time as I lost all sense of time.

Then he shifted away, raising his head and releasing me. I thought to protest but wasn’t given a chance before he ran his index fingers in mirrored paths along the V of my open shirt collar, brushing over my clavicles like a rare August breeze before meeting at the point mid-sternum where the buttons on my shirt impeded their path.

He hadn’t touched me anywhere that couldn’t readily be seen by the world outside the confines of our flat, yet I felt as if we were teetering on the edge of indecency, as if his actions — if taken in Regent’s Park — would ensure our incarceration.

I found myself unable to move, though I followed his every move with my eyes. Despite my desire to touch him in return, I seemed incapable. My one hand — the one he had freed — remained suspended in mid-air, right where he had left it, while I had managed to bring my other hand up to his waist but hadn’t found the courage actually to wrap my fingers around his waist. They, too, hovered, straining yet simultaneously going nowhere.

Then he brought his mouth to my sternum, replacing his fingers with freshly licked lips. Mercifully, the slightest nudge from those departing fingers and his chin convinced the first of my ever-straining buttons to give way and more of my skin, burning now, was made available to his mouth.

It was glorious, the feeling knocking me out of my stupor. I finally — finally — clutched at his waist with one hand as the other grabbed at his jumper and dragged him toward me.


End file.
